SONG OF THE HAYMAKERS.
The noon-tide is hot, and our foreheads are brown,
Our palms are all shining and hard,
Right close is our work with the wain and the fork,
And but poor is our daily reward;
But there's joy in the sunshine, and mirth in the lark
That skims whistling along over head,
Our spirits are light, though our skins may be dark,
And there's peace with our meal of brown bread.
We dwell in the meadows, we toil on the sod,
Far away from the city's dull gloom,
And more jolly are we, though in rags we may be,
Than the pale faces over the loom.
Then a song and a cheer for the bonnie green stack,
Climbing up to the sun wide and high,
For the pitchers and rakers and merry haymakers,
And the beautiful midsummer sky,
And the beautiful midsummer sky.
Come forth, gentle ladies, come forth, dainty sirs,
And lend us your presence a while;
Your garments will gather no stain from the burs,
And a freckle won't tarnish your smile;
Our carpet's more soft for your delicate feet,
Than the pile of your velveted floor;
And the air of our balmswarth is surely as sweet,
As the perfume of Araby's shore.
Come forth, noble masters, come forth to the field,
Where freshness and health may be found,
Where the windrows are spread for the butterfly's bed,
And the clover bloom falleth around.-Chorus.
Hold fast, cries the waggoner, loudly and quick,
Then comes the hearty, "Gee, we!"
Whilst the cunning old team of horses manage to pick
A sweet mouthful to munch as they go.
The taway-faced children come round us to play,
And bravely they scatter the heap,
'Till the tiniest one, all out-spent with the fun,
Is curled up with the sheep-dog asleep.
Old age sitteth down on the haycock's fair crown,
At the close of our laboring hay,
And wishes his life, like the grass at his feet,
May be pure at its passing away.-Chorus.